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without hurting Mrs. Cessler’s feelings. But Dana found herself saying offhandedly, “Oh, that was four years ago, not six.” And even as the words came out of her mouth she tried to catch them back, to stop them from being uttered, but they’d already flown out like a bird that launches and hovers a moment in the air before soaring.
    Silence. Mrs. Cessler and David looking at her sharply. Her hand crept to her mouth and her eyes widened, and she felt sickened at what she’d just done. Where had that come from? Even if she’d sensed his thoughts before he spoke them, she usually had enough control over herself to hide that, to keep silent. Just after her own wave of sickening shock came a wave of fury so intense from him she thought she’d physically been hit and blanched. It swamped her like a tidal wave.
    But all he did in actuality was let his features go completely cold and mocking, letting his contempt and dislike for her show without any attempt to mask it. “Since Miss Haslow knows so much about me,” he said with a softness that made her turn her head away, “why don’t we just let her answer all your questions, Grace? She obviously has a good source of information.” His very quietness was biting enough to make tears come to her eyes. She looked down at her hands as they twisted together in her lap, her face stricken.
    “I really don’t know what came over me, I—I’m sorry, I—” her muttered apology, spoken dully, petered away into nothing and like a recalcitrant child caught in a crime, she hung her head miserably.
    His fury had not abated and that more than anything lashed at her. “You don’t know what came over you to listen to gossip, or you don’t know what made you give yourself away?” he asked, with that quiet, intensely sarcastic voice. “You really must tell me your source of information. They must be damned good to get such facts—perhaps I could learn a few tricks from them to help my journalistic endeavours.”
    Face white, eyes sick, she looked to the older lady and found Mrs. Cessler smiling at her with such compassion that it, more than anything, made two great tears splash down her cheeks. She stood abruptly, clattered her cup and saucer on to the tray without looking to see if it had landed safely, and mumbled, “I’ll be by to see you again soon.” And without looking at the still seated, furious man across the room and too near, she headed for the front door at a run.
    He was quick to get out of his chair in a kind of lunge, and was after her even as she was opening the door and she could feel him coming, could feel his intent so that her fingers trembled in panic, and then she was out of the door and heading for her car blindly. She wouldn’t make it. He was too fast.
    Mrs. Cessler called out sharply, “David! Let her go, please!” Then more sharply, “David, I must talk to you right now! Please, come back inside!”
     
    He stopped at the doorway, one hand clenched on the doorpost, as he watched Dana climb into her car and drive away. The anger was still throbbing in him. It was so strong and overpowering that it began to frighten even him. He took a few deep breaths, chest heaving, in an effort to calm down. The edge was closer than he’d thought. It was right there beside him, and he’d have to be very careful to make sure he didn’t lose all control. He clamped down on his emotions, asserting his own will over them until he found himself becoming calmer. Then, bit by bit, he forced all of those dangerous feelings out and locked them away. When he went back into the living room, scant moments later, his face was normal, expressionless. He sat down and looked at the old woman.
    Grace Cessler was staring down at her gnarled, fragile hands. She plucked at the fringe of the afghan that covered her. Then she started to speak, strangely hesitant. “I want to tell you something, David. I want to tell you something that, for young Dana’s sake and for your sake,